Sherlock the Godfather
by thegirlpod
Summary: It was a regular day at 221B until John and Sherlock received the post. They suddenly have ten days to prepare their home for an eleven-year-old girl who has been orphaned and left in Sherlock's (her godfather) custody. There is hurt and scandal discovered along the way. (Contains mummy!John, the boys interacting with children, Sherlock getting annoyed, scandals, sorrow, and more).
1. Chapter 1

It was the middle of August and it was an unusually cold week. Rain and glum and clouds as far as the forecast read.

John sighed and closed the newspaper. He looked up to his companion who was in his morning routine of deep though and concentration. The summer had been relaxed, or rather, as relaxed as it got in 221B. There was a usual array of cases but no word from Moriarty or the high government. Just simple cases for a purge of adrenaline for Sherlock and John.

But the week dragged on. The gloom outside made Londoners want to cozy inside their homes and keep to themselves. There was little trouble or crime or distress, and it drove Sherlock up the wall. He wanted something, anything, to do. Something to puzzle other people and for him to figure out.

This slump of days was shortly ended when the post came in. John sorted through it after his morning paper, zoning out as the bills and credit card offers blurred together. After going through the junk, he stood, and handed Sherlock his stack of mail.

Sherlock was clearly in a different world. He slumped in his chair, eyes closed, and fingertips gently pressed together. John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock."

"Hmph."

"Sherlock, your post," John said again, this time smacking the pile of mail on his roommate's head of curls.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he glared at John, snatching his mail. He sorted through the letters, tossing each bill across his shoulder rapidly. He hardly paid attention until he reached the last letter. The only _true_ letter, hand written. He gazed at the return address in a slight daze.

Sherlocked ripped through the letter, fingers beginning to tremble as he realized what the letter must be but what it could not be. And yet, it was.

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _I regret to inform you of the death of Mr. Albert and Mrs. Elizabeth Weather. As you are aware, you are enclosed in Mr. and Mrs. Weather's will. This leaves you with full custody over their daughter, Charlotte Weather. Please expect Charlotte to arrive August 21_ _st_ _…_

There was more to read, more details and dates, but the letter fell from his hand, and Sherlock's heart began to race. He stood and stared out the window face frozen in a blank stare.

"What's gotten into you?" John questioned, quirking an eyebrow across the room.

Sherlock turned towards John, his pale skin going even whiter.

"An eleven-year-old girl is coming here in ten days."

"I beg your pardon?" John choked out.

"My goddaughter. She-she's coming to…" Sherlock couldn't finish his thought. His frantic eyes swept across the living room. Their home was full of hazard, risk, weapons, and experiments. It was certainly no place for a child.

"Your _goddaughter?_ " John inquired, aghast. Anyone who trusted Sherlock enough with their own child had to be either equally or more insane than his companion.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock breathed, looking as though he were going into shock. He slunk down the wall and sat with his knees to his chest, eyes still staring into an empty space. "I was eighteen. I-I didn't know what I was thinking. I _wasn't_ thinking."

"I wish I'd known a bit about this," John mumbled as the fact of the situation began to plunge him into an icy anxiety.

"Well I didn't expect her parents to die so suddenly!" Sherlock snapped, glaring up at John. "Her only living relative, Elizabeth's aunt Marie, is practically a witch and they never appealed to the idea of their daughter living with her if anything were to happen."

"So… you were the better option?"

"Well, obviously, John. Who else than the great family friend's son?"

"Mycroft?" John questioned further, still unable to wrap his mind around the fact that someone trusted Sherlock with their child.

"I was always Elizabeth's… favorite."

They stared at each other a moment as the situation they were in began to solidify in their minds.

"John, what am I going to _do_?" Sherlock said, looking more fearful than John had seen him.

"Well, Sherlock, you're going to get ahold of yourself and be the greatest godfather to this girl. She's just lost her parents after all, and she'll need all the love and support she can get. And we're going to give it to her," John said, sounding more confident than he felt.

"Yes. Yes, we, I-I mean, you will be here to help me of course, and Mrs. Hudson and-and I did sign up for this, it will be fine," Sherlock began to rock back and forth as he muttered, looking more and more like a mad man.

"Yes. It will be fine," John assured him. "I'll bunk with you and she can sleep in my room until we figure something else out. Besides, I think you need to work on your children skills."

They looked at each other, mirroring a look of slight amusement and pure terror.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlotte Weather gazed out the window, forehead pressed against the pane as she listened to the city beyond. The cars honked and pedestrians squawked, there was hustle and bustle on the pavement, loud shoes and pop music from here and there. Bright lights and cement and _everything_ completely unfamiliar. So Charlotte focused only the singular thing she knew. Rain. She focused her hearing on the pattering of it on the window, so reassuring and calming.

She had grown accustomed to the country side of honey bees and chickens, staying inside reading history books and listening to her mother's record player of classical symphonies. Camille Saint-Saens was one of her favorites. Charlotte knew green rolling hills, not skyscrapers. But, it was different now. Her parents had been killed. And she had been left alone.

Not completely, of course. Aunt Marie took her in until the funeral was over, and her godfather had been notified. And now, she was in the back of a cab, twenty minutes from meeting him. Her heart pounded in her ears at the thought of living the rest of her youth with a stranger. There had never been a relationship between him and her family after she was born. Mother only mentioned a few times when they would listen to Bach together. Mother had said he was a genius. Charlotte didn't like the sound of that.

She closed her eyes and imagined she was in her old dusty library. It was a game Mother taught her when she was younger. If nightmares plagued her or if she was sick in bed, Mother would tell Charlotte to close her eyes and go somewhere else. Charlotte always went back to that dusty library. She would find books and read them. She could only read the books she had read before, but it didn't bother her. She loved the escape.

Before Charlotte realized, the cab was slowing to a halt, and 221B Baker Street was right outside her window. The driver jumped out of the car to help her lift her luggage out of the trunk.

She paid her driver with the money Aunt Marie had lent her, grabbed her things, and walked to the door with the bravest face she could manage. Mother often mentioned how her brave face looked rather grumpy, but Charlotte preferred it that way. It was her only defense.

With a shaky breath, Charlotte knocked on the door.

"Sherlock, Sherlock she's at the door!" John called hysterically. He scrambled from his chair to get to the door. Sherlock was already on his way, striding with too much arrogance.

John reached the door a second after Sherlock did and watched with held breath as his companion unlocked the door and swung it open.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in a rare expression of surprise.

The little girl stood with a suitcase in one hand, a duffel bag in the other, and a great cello case over her back, towering her thing frame enormously.

"Sherlock?" She questioned, looking between the taller and shorter man.

"Er, yes, this is Sherlock," John said hastily, his nerves obvious. "And I'm John Watson, his-"

"Boyfriend?"

"What- no, no, of course not, I'm his roommate," John grumbled, thrown off guard.

"Oh," Charlotte said, brow knitting. "That… That makes more sense." It didn't really make sense to her but she didn't press the issue, realizing it must have been some sort of internal feeling that she was sensing from the pair. "I'm Charlotte."

Sherlock had said nothing. He was staring intently down at her. She stared straight back up, chin tilted upwards and pale blue eyes narrowed.

"Please, let me-" John grabbed the suitcase and duffel bag from the girl whose knees had start to tremble from the weight of her luggage.

"Following in her footsteps then?" Sherlocked said quietly. He asked, but already knew it was true.

"I don't know what you mean," Charlotte said, never breaking his line of sight.

"Cello."

" _Sherlock_ ," John hissed. "Let's help Charlotte get settled, shall we?"

She dismissed his comment on the instrument, unsure if he was trying to get a reaction out of the memory of her mother. She wondered if he was that cruel, completely ignorant, or simply didn't care. Her mouth quirked upwards into something a step below a smile. "I would love help, thank you."

John brought her bags to Charlotte's new room. It was simple, with white furniture. A small nightstand and clock, a dresser, and a bed. She set her cello down on the bed, feeling Sherlock's eyes boring into her very soul. She whipped around to stare straight back at him and put her hands on her hips. She knew he was analyzing her, picking her apart. There was no reason to cower. She didn't have anything to hide.

After a few moments of an uncomfortable staring contest, John cleared his throat. "I do hope this will work, Charlotte. We don't have much of an eye for interior design, so we decided to play it safe."

She turned to John, deciding she liked him much better than Sherlock. "It's perfect." The truth was, it was missing one thing. Her books. However, Aunt Marie told her it was her mother's cello or her collection of books, so she chose the cello, knowing she could always find new materials to read. It wasn't really a bedroom until it had a bookshelf, but that wasn't John's fault, so she remained grateful.

"Sherlock," John said, lips pursing and eyes bulging at his roommate. "We're so glad to have Charlotte here, aren't we?"

"Erm," Sherlock mumbled. "Yes. Make yourself at home. But, don't touch anything and be quiet. I like to be able to freely concentrate without distractions."

Charlotte wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Well, I can't make any promises. Two o'clock seems to fancy the creative part of my brain so there will be nights of symphonies being written and a cello being played."

The ghost of a smile hovered on Sherlock's lips and Charlotte would have thought he was pleased except for his analyzing eyes that were just as narrow and critical as always. "Sleep well," was all he said before leaving the room.

John sighed deeply and leaned against the door frame. "I'm sorry about him, it takes time to warm up to the guy. He does like you, even if he doesn't show it and I-"

"Oh, I like him," Charlotte said with a smile. "He's good fun to tease."

John gave a confused smile but nodded. He saw no reaction out of Sherlock from Charlotte's "teasing" but he was pleased to see her content. "Well, I'm glad. If there's anything you need, please let me know. I'll let you settle in."

Charlotte nodded, and the door closed. She heaved a great sigh and collapsed on the bed beside her cello, brown curls bouncing around her head as it hit the pillow. Not _the_ pillow. _Her_ pillow. On her bed, in her room, in her home. This would be her new life from here on out.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hi. Just wanted to jump in and say that I have a playlist for this story, if you would like that. It's music you can listen to while you read and is very timeless, so don't worry about it being your "preference". playlist?list=PLUWaewATZO4vXcpicldaIMkQNko-JTHqI

Thank you and enjoy.

After a minute or two of staring at the ceiling, Charlotte began to hear an argument break out. She tip-toed to the door and listened curiously. John was yelling at Sherlock for being insensitive and Sherlock was grumbling to John about being too emotional. She wondered if they were secretly married. Charlotte smiled to herself and went back to her things to unpack. There wasn't much besides her clothes and toiletries and her personal notebooks. At home, she felt so rich as to have a great garden and a library full of information and entertainment. There was the chickens to feed and chase and the bees to watch and, if she was feeling especially curious, she would sometimes follow one of them. However, Charlotte's favorite thing by far from her home was the music. Her mother taught her the cello and they would play together, while her father sat at the piano. There was constantly a symphony being played on the radio or her mother's record player. Charlotte couldn't have asked for a better life. And she never had. Until the night she would never forget.

She had awoken to the loudest sound she'd ever heard. Two, forceful, barks in the still air. Gunshots. Two for each of her parents. Charlotte had wandered up the stairs, wondering if it had all been a dream. But when she stepped in the a warm puddle and the smell of iron stung her nose, she began to scream, realizing the truth of the matter.

Charlotte groaned and pressed her palms to her eyes, escaping to her old library. Her wonderful and grand library with volumes of history and series of fantastical worlds, created by only a writer's mind.

Her panicked race to the bookshelves was abruptly interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," She said with a weak voice, looking up. It was John.

"Everything coming along, then?" He asked kindly, and she nodded. "Great! I just wanted to let you know we'll be dining with Mrs. Hudson tonight, our landlady. She's a great friend of ours and we know you'll love her."

Charlotte faked a smile and thanked him, and he was gone again. She finished unpacking and began to feel the panicking rising again. The rush of thoughts began to drown her. Who killed them? Why not me? How will I ever live here? Why, why, why did they die?

Charlotte's jaw clenched. She unzipped the cello case rapidly, and snatched the instrument out and sat down with it in position. With the bow in one hand and the cello in the other, she breathed deeply, clearing the suffocating fear from her lungs, and began to play.

"Sherlock, I just don't want the girl to be terrified of her own guardian!" John said, almost to a point of shouting.

"You can't possibly expect me to know how to talk to a child, John, that's-" Sherlock froze. John's frustrated expression melted. A gentle melody from a strong instrument wafted through their home. A memory flooded Sherlock's mind, of Elizabeth. She had played this very song for the Holmes family one evening in the Weather home when she and her husband were still young and newly married. Sherlock had never forgotten the song and how sweetly it had been performed.

He and John had relaxed their aggressive postures and were now listening intently. Sherlock stepped back and sagged into his chair.

"That's beautiful," John said with a laugh. "Even you have to admit that."

Sherlock grunted.

A/N: Hi again. I want to let you know that this story, for now, is domestic and Johnlock interacting with a child and what not, but it will take a dark and scandalous turn soon, so stay tuned if that interests you.


	4. Chapter 4

The evening arrived, and Charlotte changed from her comfortable traveling clothes into something more proper for the dinner. She wore her black pleated skirt and white blouse, brushed her long hair out and put in a hairband. Black tights, shiny shoes, and a black peacoat. Charlotte's father insisted she wore formal clothing for what others may call mundane occasions. Family meals, museum outings, picnics in the park- it was important to dress accordingly.

The bedroom door opened with a creak and she peered out before exiting. Dust floated throughout the flat, visible only through the weakening sunlight from the window. Charlotte cautiously walked into the sitting room where John sat, focused on his laptop screen. Stacks of books, papers, and files littered every surface area. She perched on the sofa against the far wall. The table beside the window held sketches, diagrams, and more books. Even the corners of the floor contained jars of unusually colored substances and odd statues. But, Charlotte lost all her focus when she saw the music stand spilling over with sheets of notes and the violin leaned precariously against the wall. She stared, heart expanding and mouth hanging agape ever so slightly.

"Do you play?" She inquired quietly.

John jumped and gasped in his chair, shooting a look upwards. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you come in. I- what? Oh, no, no, that's Sherlock's." He stumbled over his words, startled at her sudden appearance. "He'll be here in a minute, I'm sure. Then we can be off to Mrs. Hudson's. She's only a flight of stairs away, luckily for us."

Charlotte gave a small smile, unsure of what else to say. She wasn't fond of all the introductions in one day. She was glad to see Sherlock enter the room and stop another uncomfortable conversation with John. As kind as he was, he was extremely awkward.

Just like John said, their destination was only a flight of stairs and a few doors away. Sherlock lead the way and rapped firmly on the door. However, it was unnecessary, because the door flew open immediately. The woman greeting them had a kindness in her face, but it was a kindness Charlotte would hate to see disperse, for fear of what would be beneath.

Mrs. Hudson squealed in delight.

"Oh boys, you would've thought she was your own!"

Sherlock cleared his throat and John shuffled his feet. Charlotte smiled at the boldness of her statement.

"Come now, don't be strangers, come in," She said, beckoning them inside with a grin. She took Charlotte by the shoulder and held out a hand. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, dear, I'm so glad you're here now."

"Charlotte," She introduced, shaking Mrs. Hudson's hand. "Thank you for having us, Ma'am."

Mrs. Hudson laughed loudly. "Oh, what a proper little thing!"

They sat together in the cramped kitchen while Mrs. Hudson served them a warm stew. She rambled about her day and how a dog wouldn't stop following her home or how she couldn't decide what kind of bread to buy at the shop. She seemed so oblivious to how much she ranted, or maybe she just didn't care, and Charlotte liked it. Mrs. Hudson reminded Charlotte of one of Mother's gardening friends.

When they were all seated and served, Mrs. Hudson directed all attention on Charlotte and grabbed her hand.

"Such an unfortunate time, with your parents and all, dear," She said, teary eyed. Charlotte was taken aback by the woman's sudden emotion.

"Mrs. Hudson," John interjected. "I don't think Charlotte wants to-"

"I don't mind," Charlotte said quickly, and she meant it.

"Such a brave girl," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Oh, and when I heard the boys would have a little girl coming to their home…" She giggled. "I was _mortified_ as you might know, they're not exactly qualified, but oh how good it is for them to learn more about children."

Charlotte turned her head towards Sherlock, who hadn't touched the bowl sitting in front of him. He was staring at her, _again_ , and she could have smacked his bony face.

"What are you doing?" She asked, furrowing her brow. "Stop staring at me, Sherlock, it's impolite."

"Good luck with that, Charlotte, he's not one for manners," Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Oh, Sherlock, leave the poor girl alone! You and your deductions."

"Well, how else am I supposed to try and understand her?" Sherlock replied, folding his arms defensively. "I'm only trying to "get to know" Charlotte."

John shook his head. "That's not how you do it, Sherlock."

Charlotte pursed her lips when Sherlock didn't look away. She narrowed her eyes and leaned in, maintaining cold eye contact with him. "Fine, I'll just deduct you back! I know that's what you're doing, smart man. Hmm, a violinist, picky eater, lover of all death and sorrow, and- what's that? Ah, yes, I'm detecting a mean face."

John and Mrs. Hudson laughed in a slight shock, unsure of how else to respond. To the childish remark. However, Sherlock's mouth quirked, and Charlotte was satisfied.

Funnily, the night became more pleasant afterwards. It was mostly Mrs. Hudson telling stories about dates with serial killers and gossip of the neighbors. Charlotte found her interesting and genuinely kind and enjoyed her night. She decided staying in London couldn't be the worst thing that's ever happened to her.

...

Sherlock sat on his bed, reading a book on the principles of blood, while John lay on the cot across the room staring at the ceiling.

"I think she's warming up to us. Dinner with Mrs. Hudson was a good idea, I think," He said, thinking aloud.

"Hmm." Sherlocked turned the page.

"She's a little odd. Or maybe that's just how children are. I wouldn't know. You certainly wouldn't." John sighed. "I would appreciate you being a little _kinder,_ Sherlock, you're her godfather afterall, not me. It's not fair to her, I mean, her parents just died. Why can't you just, be a little more welcoming?"

Why couldn't John understand? Why couldn't he just tell him? _Because I know the truth, John._

"I'm going to bed. If you want to stay up, go somewhere else," John mumbled, turning over and getting comfortable for the night.

Sherlock sighed. The lights went out, and he left the room.

...

 _The blood beneath her feet was warm. Her mother was at the end of the sticky trail. Iron stung her nose and mouth, and she clapped a hand to cover them. The room was dark except for the white moonlight flooding in through the window. The light shone on the bloodied faces of her parents. Her stoic father, her beloved mother._ Who did this? Who? Where are they? _But Charlotte already knew._

Her eyes snapped open. Sweat trailed down the back of her neck and she tried to control her thumping heart. Charlotte's chin trembled, and her hands shook. She kicked off the hot blankets and closed her eyes, trying to find her library. Where was her dusty old kingdom full of stories and research and knowledge? It soon became clear that she couldn't focus because she heard _music._ Charlotte sat up, heart thumping for an entirely different reason now. Not fear, but longing.

The melody was bitter sweet, flowing and gentle and nostalgic. There was so much emotion packed into one piece of music. Charlotte recognized it at once, a piece from her childhood, a piece that would soothe her to sleep on her sickest nights, calm her through her sorrows. The very song she had played the morning.

The clock read 2:00AM.

Charlotte tiptoed out of her room and gazed at the figure in the sitting room. He stood facing the window, moonlight pouring upon him and his violin.

She leaned against the back of John's chair, staring and listening, desperate for the comfort the music brought her. The melody gave Sherlock a kind temperance she hadn't expected to see from him. Charlotte closed her eyes and listened as the music drowned away her worries.

 **A/N: If you are curious, the song Sherlock and Charlotte play at the beginning of this story is inspired by The Swan by Camille Saint-Saens. I encourage to listen to it. It's a beautiful piece.**


	5. Chapter 5

Charlotte woke hours later in her bed. Outside, it was a clear young day and the sun was beginning to warm the world. She slowly sat up, wondering if the night before had been a dream; perhaps that lulling melody had been her mind looking for comfort. She stood and grabbed a small bathroom kit and a simple outfit for the day before heading out of her room.

The flat was quiet, and the traffic of the city hadn't quiet begun in the early hours. John sat in his armchair, dressed and drinking coffee while reading the paper. Sherlock was still in his sleeping wear and robe, hair tousled and face tired. He was slumped in his own chair, fingertips pressed together, and eyes closed in some sort of meditative state.

Charlotte knew the polite thing would be to greet them, but she didn't _feel like_ being polite at such an hour, so she trailed quietly into the bathroom to freshen up. Moments later, she came back out into the living space and cleared her throat.

"Someone left their toes in the bathtub," She squeaked.

It took only a moment for John to process what she had said before he jumped to his feet.

"Sherlock!" He cried. "For God's sake!"

Sherlock looked indifferent, but he stood and left for the bathroom, grumbling all the way. John ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed. "I'm sorry, Charlotte. He just loves his experiments."

Charlotte wasn't sure she'd ever get the image of the things out of her head but replied in her kindest tone. "I understand. He must be researching something important. I just wonder where he got the toes…"

"From the morgue, I'm sure."

"The morgue?" Charlotte inquired curiously. "He has easy access to it then?"

"You could say that," John replied, sitting back down. Charlotte sat in Sherlock's chair to face John.

"What kind of work is it, exactly?" She questioned.

"Well, I'm a doctor. He calls himself a "consulting detective"," John said trying not to scoff.

"That makes sense…" It didn't really. "How often do you go?"

John quirked an eyebrow. "Whenever they need us for a case. Why?"

"Oh, no reason, it's just rather fascinating. I mean, that's not a usual thing, you know. Working in a morgue, let alone bringing home souvenirs."

"Well, that's Sherlock for you. Completely unusual."

"And that's why you love him," Charlotte said with a nod and a genuine smile. She was pleasantly surprised to see John flush ever so slightly and clear his throat.

"I wouldn't exactly say-"

"The toes have been extracted." Sherlock walked into the front room, making a beeline for his chair, but stopping when he found Charlotte there. She looked up at him and found him looking slightly irritated.

"Oh, sorry." She jumped up when she realized why he had been glaring. He plopped down into the chair and resumed his odd and thoughtful state.

She trekked back to the bathroom and cleaned herself up. After showering and drying, she brushed out her curls and dressed into her white top and black dress. Charlotte liked dressing in a way that made her feel rather smart and sophisticated. She gazed in the grimy mirror and sighed at the state of the messy room. _This will not do._ She decided she'd have to tidy things up soon. She slipped on her black headband and retreated to the sitting room to sit with Sherlock and John.

Sherlock was now texting furiously and John typing away at his laptop. They looked like two teenage boys obsessed with their screens and Charlotte smiled to herself at the thought.

"Who are you texting, Sherlock?" Charlotte asked, sitting on a chair beside the table. She leaned against the table and propped her head up with a hand as Sherlock replied with looking up.

"Who says I'm texting? Why not tweeting or blogging, hm?"

"Don't be so defiant, Sherlock. It's obvious."

"Explain your deduction, little girl."

"It's not deduction, it's common sense."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

"Enough, you two," John grumbled.

There was a quiet pause and Charlotte watched her dangling feet swing back and forth.

"Besides," She said quietly this time. "I didn't really do anything smart or figure out a puzzle. I can see your screen."

Sherlock put down the phone and turned to give her a look of irritation.

"M?" She continued. "Is that Mycroft, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly. "Do you always pester and pry like this?"

Charlotte was taught by her father to never snoop or pry, but her mother taught her to always be curious and ask questions. "Yes," She decided. "I do."

She was surprised to Sherlock smile, and as unsettling as it was, it looked real to her. "Good."

The day went on. Charlotte mostly kept to her room, practicing and playing the cello until her hands were sore. Sherlock stumbled around the flat, flipping through papers, looking through at experiments, and reading. He was obviously bored to tears as he searched around for something to keep him preoccupied. John obviously grew tired of this Sherlock as he decided to go out and buy groceries for the home.

Around that time, Charlotte made her way to the kitchen where Sherlock sat inspecting something through his microscope. She sat across from him, legs dangling, and face supported up by her cupped hands.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Sherlock, why don't I know you?"

"Excuse me?" He looked up and looked at her with a furrowed brow.

"I'm not trying to be mean. I just don't understand. My mother talked of how wonderful and clever you were, but it was like she was talking about someone who had died. I've never met you until now. Perhaps, they got things wrong? Maybe my godfather died and they just confused you with him."

"Mm, very unlikely."

"Then why don't I know you, Sherlock? Why did we never visit you?"

"Your parents visited my family often, Charlotte."

"But why not me?"

Sherlock sighed, and she noticed how tired he looked.

"What can I say? I'm bad with human relationships. Keeping in contact wasn't in my interests after I grew up."

She stared right through him. "Don't lie to me."

He narrowed his eyes. "What kind of game are you trying to play, little one?"

"Are you even sad about my parents? Do you even care?" Charlotte asked. She was still quiet as ever, and gentle as a cloud, but still pressing.

"Would it be so wrong if I didn't?" Sherlock spat, and it cut Charlotte.

She bit her lip and stood. "I know you do care. You can't hide everything behind your mask of indifference."

Charlotte turned and left.


End file.
